Strange Days
by Kamakiri
Summary: Dreams are more realistic than looking out the window, or talking to whom you /think/ are your family. Drama begins to unfold as some students begin to realise that they have been living lies... Rated T for language, etc. (pairings may include, but not restricted to; USUK, RusChi, AusHun, LietPol, GiriPan, and Spamano. (with mentions of BTT menagé à trois) (contains some humour :P)


Aaaah, I've been wanting to write this for a while now, but I've never found a way to write it nor have I had the time.

Should be interesting ^-^

It's pretty easy to work out what is happening, but that's how it shall be for the next 5+ chapters; I'll hint at the same stuff but soon enough, stuff with start to link up.

Warnings: possible minor gore and violence, language, badly written USUK plus other pairings, and the possibility of OOC characters. Kill me if that happens, please.

Disclaimer: don't own Hetalia, still wishing like every other Hetalian.

R&R, please!

:::

**1: Unknown Reason**

_The jeers filled the air, a mix of anger and triumph in the shouted words as the girl was shoved towards the pyre, face stoic._

_"Burn the witch!"_

_"Long live the King!"_

_He stood at the back of the crowd, shoulders shaking silently as he watched on, tears running down his cheeks, making lines through the dirt._

_"Please, no..." he breathed, eyes wide as he clutched weakly at his sides. God, he felt ill..._

_"Joan of Arc, hath been proclaimed-"_

_"God told me to lead my country to victory! Is it wrong to follow Him?" the young woman said, voice cracking._

_The priest fell silent, motioning for the girl to be tied to the stake. The soldiers leapt back as the fire was lit, the flames catching quickly._

ssssssssss

"Arthur Kirkland!"

"Yes? What?" the Briton's brow furrowed, glancing up from his stack of papers, all relating to the student council.

You see, Arthur was the Student Representative, stuck without anyone to help him; firstly, no one particularly liked him. Secondly; Arthur didn't particularly like anyone in the council. He was in his senior year of high school, and had an ongoing argument with his Literature teacher about the spelling of things on quizes and in textbooks.

Whom stood in front of him at that moment, glaring down at him.

"What were you doing last night?" she asked, peering at the papers Arthur was sifting through.

"What's it to you?"

"Excuse you, Kirkland!" the teacher huffed, slamming a fist down on the table, glare deepening, "You set fire to a poster as well as a section of carpet in your room, I heard."

Arthur snorted, meeting the teacher's gaze.

"I did nothing of the sort." he replied evenly, biting back a sarcastic response.

"Arthur..."

"Oh, al-fucking- right! I set fire to a section of carpet. The poster was Gilbert's fault, in the room next to mine."

Mrs Kirsch frowned, tutting. She tapped her pen impatiently against the desk, leaning forward.

"If I hear you've been smoking-"

"Indoors you'll kick my arse, yes. I know. It won't happen again." Arthur muttered, giving a slight shrug as he began packing up his things, wanting to get out of the library as quickly as possible as the so-called popular crowd had waltzed in, talking in loud whispers. Mrs Kirsch left him alone, stalking off to verbally abuse a group of seniors who had started a poker game wherein they were trading what looked to be small flasks of alcohol.

The school certainly wasn't prestigious; sure, it was a hub for international students such as himself, but its teachers were terrible, as were the resources. Every year there were arguments between the Art department and the Science department about whom needed the most equipment for the next year. Most of the time, the latter won.

Arthur certainly hadn't been smoking. The idea repulsed the young man quite a lot, but there was not any other explaination he could come up with.

Well, one that people would believe, anyways.

The truth was that well, he had a talent for Black Magic. His parents thought he was insane, his peers thought he was making meth in his room (his room mate was nonexistant, so there wasn't anyone to say otherwise. Except his boyfriend, really...)

That night had been a bored experiment gone wrong; instead of giving him a safe fire that _wouldn'_t burn the carpet, it singed through the coarse material, leaving a black mark and a section where the old floorboards showed through, partially burnt, too.

He was just lucky Alfred, his aforementioned boyfriend of exactly three months and twenty-four days, had been in the room and managed to rush out into the corridor, getting a bucket of water from the communal showers before it had destroyed too much.

He was jerked out of his thoughts when an object struck the back of his head, the shock of it drawing a surprised yell from him as he spun around, glaring at Gilbert, whom had moved over to pick up the book.

"Sorry-"

Arthur waved his hand dismissively, uninterested as he turned away, smoldering as he massaged the back of his head, wincing a little.

Why did he have to be stuck at such a shitty school with insipid fools like him?

sssssssssssss

"France." a voice called weakly in the dream, the smog and sooty rain beginning to fade as he woke up slowly.

Francis rolled over with a groan, stuffing his pillow over his head.

'Stupid hangover...' he thought, gritting his teeth at the left over taste of wine in his mouth. It was nice drinking it, but the next day; it was fucking terrible.

The dream he had had... It had been strange.

In the dream, he was a little older, and evidently in a different time.

Giving up with trying to sleep more, he sat up in bed, stretching.

"When...? It seemed so familiar..." he muttered with a yawn, rubbing his eyes. His mind wandered, trying to pick apart the dream again as he swung his legs out of bed, standing up.

"The girl... What was her name? Maybe I-... Jeanne."

It all came back to him, so fast the next thing he knew, he was on his knees, body shaking as he sobbed.

He felt empty, so empty that Joan- or Jeanne as he called her- had been burnt at the stake.

Growing up, his mother had told him about how some people got reincarnated, so maybe this was the case.

He shook his head, it was too weird...

The young Frenchman felt off; and it wasn't his hangover. Strange feelings swirled in his stomach, making his heart flutter, his mouth go dry.

He shut his eyes.

"Jeanne, I'm sorry.." He murmured, breathing out shakily as he stood up again, leaning heavily against the wall.

So strange... He was glad it was a Saturday, and that, apparently, Antonio and Gilbert were already out. He needed to be alone, to think.

Francis wiped his eyes, reaching over to retrieve his shirt from the edge of his bed, slipping the soft cotton over his head. When he was happy with how it was, he cautiously moved between their beds to get to his side of the long wall of slim doors. Opening one, he reached in to pick out a pair of jeans and put them on. One leg was in when a wave of numbness struck him, making him lean back into the wall.

"Shit." he hissed, fighting the urge to vomit again. The dream came back to him again, but there were flashes of something else, someone else.

Someone who looked an awful lot like Arthur Kirkland.

Anger boiled up inside of him, his fingers uncoordinated as he finished pulling his pants on, soon searching amongst the clothes and shoes on the floor for his pair of cheap knock-off no-name tennis shoes.

If he was going to kick Arthur's arse and head in- for what reason, he did not know-, he wasn't going to do it with his expensive shoes on, no way.

All he knew was Arthur was so dead when he found him...


End file.
